I Would Really Like Some Boinga-Boinga
The other day, I was looking at pictures of my style icon, Jennifer Aniston. In every photo, regardless of whether she was wearing a tank top, a tee shirt, or a sweater, I couldn’t help noticing the way her breasts totally defy gravity.
It’s not like they are pointing upward, but they definitely don’t sag, and her headlights are always on. Also worth noting is how her celebrity-slender body - which was probably beaten into shape with Pilates and boring dressing-free salads - is flawless, but my topic here is: OMG, how does a woman who was born in 1968 have the boobs of a teen?
My own chest region, which has endured one pregnancy, decades of yo-yo dieting, and is almost sixty years old, is looking…well…it’s age. I’ll spare you specific details except to say things stop, drop, and roll when my unsexy, utilitarian German-designed bra with multiple hooks, thick straps, and reinforced stitching is removed.
I’m convinced clothing designers are an evil bunch whose sole purpose is to annoy those of us who are middle-aged and gravity-challenged. I think it’s a conspiracy. Why else would finding clothes that fit, don’t look matronly, and are stylish be such a challenge? And why else would we all have at least three different sizes hanging in our closets?
You want to know what’s really difficult? Trying to figure out a neckline to wear that looks halfway decent. A scoop-neck shirt won’t work because the area under my neck is bony. A plunging neckline is a hard no because everyone would see my droopy ruins and possibly glimpse the heavy-duty bra. Strapless anything is also out of the question. There really aren’t many nice-looking tops designed with a busty, gravity-challenged middle-aged woman in mind, which leaves the coastal grandma look, which I’m not knocking and have been known to embrace but also don’t want to wear all the freaking time.
Whah. Whah. Whah. Whine. Whine. Whine. I know from past experience that you can change your body quite a bit with diet and exercise, but no amount of weight lifting will bring back the boinga-boinga of my youth. Do you know what I mean? Boinga-Boinga? Get it?
If finances aligned in my favor and I wasn’t deathly afraid of doctors, sometimes I wonder if I would ever visit a plastic surgeon’s office and request that my chest region be transformed into something that resembles Jennifer’s. My baby-bearing days are in the rearview mirror and I’m working on whittling down the weight so things are stabilizing. This may sound vain, but it would be nice if the num-nums didn’t almost touch my feet when I bent over, and there was a little of that boinga-boinga of my younger years.
In one sense, it goes against the “accept your body” message I’m trying to embrace. On the other, I miss my youth and really want some boinga-boinga again.